


All Too Well

by Star_Crossed_Lovers_and_Other_Strangers



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Boys Kissing, Emotional Hurt, Father-Son Relationship, Gay, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, M/M, Meet the Family, Post-Break Up, Relationship Problems, Romance, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Crossed_Lovers_and_Other_Strangers/pseuds/Star_Crossed_Lovers_and_Other_Strangers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sterek AU: Stiles and Derek were in love, until the fire. Derek lost his family, and Stiles lost Derek. Years later, Stiles comes home for Thanksgiving weekend to find his ex-boyfriend has also returned to Beacon Hills. They're both broken, but can they be fixed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Too Well

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** This is my first Teen Wolf fanfiction, so don't shoot. I became inspired when I heard the Taylor Swift song "All Too Well" which perfectly depicts the complications of being in a relationship, and the illogical parts of pain. Certain aspects of the song are incorporated into the fic. I also do not claim to be perfect at writing Derek's family (Or Derek, or Stiles), but this is an AU, so I let myself write them the way I wanted while still trying to be true to the characters. Also, I created a third sister for Derek--Sarah Hale.  
>  **Pairing:** Sterek, with a small dose of Scott/Allison.  
>  **Warnings** While the fire happens at a different time, years later, it still does happen with much the same result. Character death.

“Oh my god, Derek, stop,” Stiles protested gently, pushing at his large boyfriend without much force as they walked from the car toward the house. They’d been together for a month, and it was time for Stiles to meet Derek’s family. It just so happened the invitation had come on Thanksgiving. It was lunch with the Hale family, and dinner with Stiles’ father later that day. 

“Your parents are inside. I have to make a good impression.” Derek growled teasingly, but relinquished his hold on Stiles, with a final playful nip at his neck. Stiles pulled his red scarf tighter to hide the markings Derek had made on him in the car, blushing madly, simply unable to help it.

Derek suddenly tightened his arm around Stiles’ waist, frowning. “Are you cold?” He was instantly concerned, in that Derek-Hale kind of way. It was like he had an obligation to take care of other people and put them before himself. Stiles had learned in the few weeks they’d been together that he needed to pay attention and make sure Derek was taken care of, too. Stiles loved how cute Derek got when he was worried, like he’d start a fight with the weather over inconveniencing his boyfriend. There was that word again. Boyfriend. He kept saying it or thinking it and he didn’t want to stop.

“I’m fine,” Stiles leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You said your sister likes soccer, right? I did a lot of reading on it, and I think I could totally manage to talk about it for a good forty minutes. You know, if I need to make small talk.”

“Forty minutes? You don’t need to make small talk, Stiles,” Derek stopped him as they reached the stairs up to the porch, and put his hands on Stiles’ hips. “You’re here with me, and that means everyone is going to love you, because I love you. Regardless of your knowledge of soccer.”

“I also read some about football, and badminton, and volley—” Stiles was cut off as Derek kissed him hungrily, tipping him back a little and deepening the kiss in a way that totally warmed Stiles’ from head to toe. He clung to Derek, suddenly uncaring about the possible eyes on them or the suggestion it might offer. He only cared about Derek, and touching him, and being near him. Suddenly, Derek had whisked him up the steps and opened the front door, before Stiles could remember to be nervous again.

The house was as Stiles had pictured it. It was large, with big, open rooms filled with comfortable furniture. The whole bottom floor smelled heavily of the delicious meal being prepared nearby, and there was a fire burning in the fireplace. He saw various men and women draped around, laughing and talking, entirely at home. It was their home, and even though he didn’t know any of them, and had only stood under the Hale roof for a moment, he felt like he was home, too. Not that it wasn’t great to spend time with his dad, eating pizza and bickering in a way he’d truly come to love, but it was different there. It was a large family, a community of people. Derek was there.

A tall, beautiful woman came toward them, carrying a pan of sweet potatoes. She looked almost exactly like Derek, but perhaps a few years older. Her long, dark hair was loose around her shoulders and she wore a comfortable, flattering sweater with some jeans. She held the pan off to the side as she gave Derek a one-armed hug. “Little brother, growing more every time I see you,” she said, and her fondness was audible in her voice.

“Sarah,” he said, grinning freely, and kissed her cheek. “You’re a nice surprise. I thought you weren’t coming down from Seattle.”

“Well, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to meet your boyfriend,” she said, thrusting the pan against his chest until his hands gripped the edges. She left it with him and came over to Stiles to hug him with both arms, lifting him slightly. “Stiles Stilinski. You are the cutest little thing. If I liked boys, I would totally want to take you to the movies and buy you all the candy you wanted.”

“He’s not that young,” Derek sighed. “It’s legal.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Sarah flashed a grin and took Stiles’ hand. “Come on. Let’s go into the kitchen. Mama will want to meet you. I think we’re almost done cooking, so we’ll be eating soon. Derek, you can take that to the table, and then go get Daddy and Cora from out back. They’re playing soccer. It’s a Thanksgiving tradition after all.”

“I-I know about soccer,” Stiles offered, overwhelmed by the open affection Sarah had given him, and nervous at the mention of their age difference. It had been a sore spot with his father.

“Well, maybe we’ll all play a game later,” Sarah led Stiles by hand down the hall, not looking back toward Derek. “What do you know about heating up rolls?”

“I could probably manage that,” Stiles said, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t already part of their family.

 

“Nice Batman sheets,” Stiles chuckled, amused by his new discovery. Derek perched on the arm of the couch, groaning between mumbles of barely audible explanation. Stiles sat in the middle of the couch, flanked by Sarah and Talia with a photo album across his lap. The rest of Derek’s family sat around the living room, watching with amusement and throwing jabs at Derek that turned him red. Stiles liked seeing Derek blush. Stiles liked seeing Derek happy. “Are those your barbies?”

“Those are mine,” Laura said. “We shared a room for a good couple of years. Though, I do believe I often caught Derek putting them in harm’s way, and rescuing them. He was pretty proud of himself. Very chivalrous, too.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Derek huffed, not looking at Stiles. He tried his best to be annoyed, but Stiles knew he was happiest here, with his sisters and parents. He could understand—he was used to getting in light bickering matches with his dad, and both of them had grown to enjoy them, finding the smallest thing to get on each other about. Maybe it was feeling secure, that he could tease with someone and still felt loved, and safe. When there was unconditional love, there was always forgiveness. He imagined Derek felt very safe there, despite his protests and persistent attempts to snatch the photo album from Stiles’ lap. Sarah slapped his hand every time.

“That’s very heroic of you, Derek,” Stiles said, reaching across Sarah to find his hand and squeeze it. Derek slowly turned his gaze toward him, and he exhaled, as if all of the embarrassment and irritation had left him and he was in a place nobody could reach but Stiles. They stared at each other, and Stiles was lost in Derek for a moment, something he’d grown quite used to.

“I’m going to vomit,” Cora said. “Let’s go take a run, maybe play a game of baseball. Derek used to be on the team, you know.”

“Traitor,” Stiles huffed. “You never told me you played organized sports.” Sarah suddenly stood, and went to a drawer in the cabinet and dug around through some unorganized photos before making a sound of triumph and producing a team photograph, with little Derek giving a big grin in the front row. Derek crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head.

“You can keep it,” Sarah said. “We’ve got more somewhere. Derek was so proud of making shortstop, he made mom get like ten of them.”

“He was very proud of his accomplishments,” Talia said. She had mostly stayed out of the sibling teasing, but occasionally said something fondly about Derek or one of the girls. Stiles had caught her looking at him and Derek, and wondered what she was thinking.

“Well, thanks for showing me,” Stiles said. “I don’t want to bore you guys. I probably can’t keep up with you very well on a run, so maybe you guys could go, and I’ll just hang out here. I’m sure I could entertain myself for a few minutes.”

“Sounds good to me,” Cora launched to her feet, and dashed out the back door into the yard. Stiles had realized quickly that her impatient nature wasn’t her being rude; she was just active and upfront about things. Most of the family followed suit, but Derek hesitated. Stiles came over to him and kissed him softly, holding the photo album to his chest protectively.

“You go. I’ll wait here,” he said.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Derek said. “It’d be rude. And we’d be apart.”

“Oh, come on, Derek,” Laura said. “You and Cora always race, and she kicks your butt. It’s tradition. I’ll hang with Stiles. You go. I promise I won’t tell him anymore stories about barbies.”

“I know you won’t run away from me for long,” Stiles said and poked his chest. “Or else, you’d better not.” 

Derek hesitated, but nodded slowly at Laura, kissing Stiles’ forehead as he left the room. Stiles could hear laughter and joking from outside, and he grinned.

 

Stiles decided against playing baseball after the run, though he stood outside and watched for quite a while, commenting uncomfortably on what was happening in appropriate terms from the sidelines. He eventually wandered back inside into the kitchen and over to the sink. One by one, he washed the dirty dishes and set them on a dishtowel he’d spread out the counter next to the sink. He jumped when Talia spoke, suddenly behind him.

“There you are,” she said. “You really don’t have to do that, Stiles.”

“I don’t mind,” he said shyly, staring at his hands as they ran over the fine china, decorated with chips that gave them character. That kind of described the entire Hale house—something that had been new once, but became better, friendlier, once it had been lived in. Talia stood beside Stiles, watching his hands for a moment, too.

“I’ll dry,” she said. Stiles was grateful for the help, and the acceptance of his help in their house. It made him feel useful, and welcome. “You know,” she said. “I’ve never seen Derek quite this happy.”

“Really?” Stiles blinked.

“Yes, really,” she said. “Maybe when he was little, playing with his toys, entirely innocent of everything and…” She trailed, hesitating to continue the line of conversation. “I must ask, how much did he tell you about our family?”

Everything clicked for Stiles instantly—she was asking if he knew they were werewolves. Stiles smiled, because it hadn’t occurred to him that Derek wouldn’t tell his parents about it, their meeting. It made him feel like it was kind of private. Special, maybe. “I know about it,” he said. “I was, uh, driving home. And he was in the middle of the road, all kind of wolfed out.” And naked. “So I hit my breaks, and swerved a little, and he came over to check on me. I’d seen him around before. He was so concerned about me, he didn’t even realize he still had his wolf face on.” He didn’t seem to remember he wasn’t wearing clothes, either. “So I was staring, and he eventually caught on, and stepped away. When he looked back at me, his claws were gone; his face was how it normally is—concerned still, but less teeth and sideburns. He cares so much about other people. He was nervous about what I’d say, but—”

“Stiles asked me if I liked pie,” Derek said, lingering in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand gripping the top of the doorframe above him. “And said that we should totally get some.” Stiles didn’t mention that Derek had to go grab some clothes first. It didn’t seem important.

“Brave boy,” Talia said, leaning against the counter and dropping the towel she’d been using to dry the dishes beside them. “So, everything was out in the open.”

“The entire time we were at the bakery, he was asking me question after question,” Derek grinned and came over, putting a hand at the bottom of Stiles’ back and leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Talking non-stop. I thought, who is this kid, and what do I have to do to make him stop talking? Except then, after I made sure he got home safe, I walked back here. I was in the woods, and it was so quiet. Practically silent. And I realized then that I hated it that way, hated it being quiet. And I missed his voice, and his energy, and his excitement. And I didn’t ever want to be without it again.”

“You guys are really gross,” Cora said, brushing past Derek and getting herself something to drink, partially out of breath from the soccer.

“I think it’s cute,” Sarah said, as the rest of the family made their way into the kitchen and filled the room with voices and the smell of sweat and wolves. Stiles had already gotten used to that scent, as Derek typically ran or walked to meet him instead of driving. He loved it.

“So, Derek, why don’t you show Stiles your room?” Laura suggested. “I bet he would love to see it.”

 

Stiles sat on the edge bed, while Derek moved around and fussed with things in his room. It was cute to see him so nervous and uncomfortable, and unable to hide it. Stiles laid back on the bed so most of his body was lying flat, but his legs still hung over the edge. He put his hands behind his head, and his shirt rode up, baring his belly. Derek suddenly paused, watching him, and he made a sound somewhere between a moan and a growl.

“I’ll give you a prize if you stop trying to hide your dirty clothes and come over here,” Stiles said, and it only took seconds for Derek to be lying beside him and kissing him. Stiles kissed him back, pressing into him as much as he could, and wrapping one leg around Derek’s body, hands twisted in his shirt. “I like your room.”

“Oh yeah?” Derek said.

“Yeah. Especially the part about you being in it,” he reached up to play with his hair, running a hand through it and tugging lightly. “You were right about your family. They’re totally cool. I love your sisters.”

“Even Cora?” Derek raised an eyebrow.

“Even Cora,” Stiles said. “I mean, she’s right. We are pretty gross. I never thought I’d be the guy in the relationship that everybody else wanted. I mean Scott has Allison, and I even feel like he might be a little bit jealous. Allison isn’t a smoking hot werewolf, though she’s pretty handy with an arrow.”

“I don’t think Scott wants to date me,” Derek teased, leaning down to kiss and nibble at Stiles’ neck, gently removing his scarf and tossing it elsewhere in the room.

“That’s not what I mean,” Stiles said. “I mean, happy. We’re the happy relationship. And people want that, and we have that.”

“It does seem that way,” Derek lifted his face so it was directly above Stiles’. He leaned down and kissed him softly, with a certain need obvious. “I want to be happy with you forever, Stiles Stilinski.”

“I feel like that’s very likely,” Stiles said. “Though if I keep coming to these family dinners, I’m going to get super fat. I don’t have a wolf metabolism, you know.”

Derek laughed, unstrained, the way it normally was when he was with Stiles. “I like the part where you keep coming to family dinners.”

They laid for a while in silence, Derek mostly on top of Stiles, both of them breathing quietly. It was comfortable to lay that way, and Stiles forgot several times where he was, so engrossed by the scent and feeling of Derek, the way that his body seemed to curl around his and the way he held them together. Eventually, Stiles asked softly, “What’s your favorite thing in your room?”

Derek didn’t answer in words. He just cupped Stiles’ cheek and kissed him.

 

II – Three Years Later

 

It only took Stiles’ a minute after exiting the airport to find his dad’s patrol car, parked in the arrivals line with the engine still running. He quickly stowed his bags in the back and climbed into the passenger seat, smiling at him in a familiar way. “Hey, old man.” They made an effort to talk to each other as much as possible during the semester, but at times Stiles became too distracted with school to call much. If he was being honest with himself, part of the reason was that he didn’t want to think of home. It made him think about Derek, and his past, and suddenly he was lost in a wave of depression and longing and pain. He had to distance himself from it, which meant sometimes not answering his father’s phone calls.

“How was your flight?” the Sheriff asked, easing the car out of the line and toward the exit. “Not too bumpy?” He seemed different. Older. It was strange for Stiles to pick up on it, but his hair was graying the smallest bit at the sides, and he seemed to put on weight that fit him comfortably for his age. It still worried him.

“You know, same as all flights. People talking, people sleeping, kids crying, peanuts,” Stiles shrugged off the question, and felt a pang of guilt. “But I’m happy to be home.”

“How’s school?” his dad asked, trying his best to hold a conversation in the car, “You’re keeping up with everything okay, even being away from home?”

“It’s great, dad,” Stiles assured him. He knew how much the cost of college had weighed on his father, and he wanted to show his appreciation as much as possible. After the fire, things had changed abruptly, and Stiles had taken his college acceptance as a way out of Beacon Hills and away from his problems. “It’s turning out to be just what I wanted. I miss Scott, and you, but I see you guys enough.” It was a lie. He almost never saw Scott anymore, and he only occasionally talked to his father. He only visited on holidays. “How’s work?”

“Pretty much the same,” he said, but Stiles could tell he was hiding something. He wasn’t looking at him, and he hadn’t gotten out of the car to greet him. The first time he’d returned to Beacon Hills after his first semester, his father had met him at the gate with a large sign and a goofy grin. He was being quiet, and years of living with him had taught Stiles that when he was quiet, he usually had something to say. Maybe Stiles inconsistent communication over the past few months had made his dad tentative to speak his mind. Another pang. More guilt.

“It’s not something wrong with Scott, is it?” Stiles asked, looking at him pointedly. If something bad had happened to someone he cared about and he’d been too preoccupied to notice, he’d never forgive himself. It didn’t feel like that sort of thing, though. Not something dire. “Oh god, wait—are you dating someone? Please tell me it’s someone age appropriate, and that they’re not feeding you things that will kill you. Dad, I get that you’ve still got it or whatever, but you need to eat right. Salad, grilled chicken, you need to stay alive—”

“It’s Derek,” his dad said quietly. It was like someone had stabbed him in the chest, and as his mind ran rampant with possibilities, the blade began to twist. It was a familiar pain but it didn’t hurt any less.

“Derek,” Stiles nodded, automatically acting like he didn’t care, though he knew there was no reason to pretend in front of his dad. He almost didn’t say anything else, but curiosity got the best of him. “What about him?”

“He’s back in town,” his dad responded, braving a glance in his direction. Stiles was already staring out the window, tense and uncomfortable.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles said, voice barely audible. Derek hadn’t lived in Beacon Hills for years. Not since the fire, about a year after they began dating.

“Yeah. He’s kept pretty much to himself, but he actually came to talk to me a couple of days ago. Came to the station, knocked on my door. I didn’t know what to do,” his dad was speaking faster, though there was still a hesitance as he waited for Stiles to become upset. “He asked about you, whether you’d be home for Thanksgiving.”

“Why would he care about that?” Stiles huffed, irritated that Derek talked to his father, instead of talking to him. He thought about the Thanksgiving he’d spent with Derek’s family, and the warmth and happiness it had brought him. The knife pushed deeper, and he let the memory get shoved to the back of his mind, with everything else that involved Derek Hale. His family, his smell, his smile, his hands…

“He said he doesn’t want to bother you, that he’ll stay out of the way. He wanted to know when you were arriving, so he could make himself scarce, stay out of sight,” his dad finished quickly. Stiles didn’t respond and they sat in silence for the rest of the car ride—Stiles lost in thought and his dad too hesitant to try and continue the conversation. Stiles knew it was selfish to ignore his dad, pretend he wasn’t trying to have an honest talk about it, but he couldn’t help himself. When they got home, they both sat in the car, parked in front of the house. Stiles was just about to open his door when his dad softly, and bravely, asked, “What even happened, Stiles? I know there was the fire, but suddenly things were over between the two of you. You were so in love—”

“I’m really not in the mood to talk about this,” Stiles snapped, harsher than he meant to be. “I’m more tired from the plane ride than I thought.”

“Right, of course. Well, get some sleep,” his dad said, not following him right away into the house.

 

Stiles’ dreams were mashed up memories, and all of them were nightmares. First, he was running through the woods, heart pounding. He could see the flames from far away, and the smoke was suffocating. There were sirens, screams, chaos everywhere. Stiles didn’t care. He wanted to find Derek. They’d been on the phone and Derek had been out for a walk when he suddenly hung up. Stiles knew something was wrong—Derek sounded so panicked before the line went dead. He knew it was bad. He stumbled when he got close enough to see the house in detail. It was almost entirely engulfed in flames—it was more fire than wood. He started screaming for Derek, and began to circle the house, calling his name over and over again. He found him, standing, frozen in much the same way Stiles had been. Stiles reached for him and Derek snapped back, as if waking up all at once. He stared at Stiles, and back at the fire, and then he ran. Derek ran away, and Stiles could barely watch through the smoke.

The image shifted, the memory changed, to a time before the fire. Stiles woke to find the bed empty. Derek had started staying over after their third date, at least three nights a week. They didn’t do anything but lay together, but Stiles felt happier pressed against Derek than he ever had before. He stood slowly, and put on Derek’s shirt. It didn’t cover much, but it smelled like him, and Stiles wanted to smell like him, like a Hale. He stepped into the hall and listened for his father’s snores, smiling when he heard them from behind his door. He quietly made his way down the stairs, drawn by the light of the kitchen. Derek was standing at the oven in his boxers, making a grilled cheese. There was something so funny about it that Stiles almost laughed loudly before he realized that it was the middle of the night, and Derek wasn’t supposed to be there. He crept to him and hugged him from behind, pressing his face against his back. Derek turned his head slightly and smiled. “Sorry, I was hungry. All that making out, I guess.”

Their laughter turned to silence. Stiles was standing in a cold room, with low lighting and barely anything in it. Except for the bodies. Nobody had survived the fire but Derek, but a few of the bodies had lasted long enough for identification. Then Derek had left town unexpectedly, and so Stiles was called in to look at the bodies and see if he recognized anyone. He wanted to throw up, staring at lines of sheet-covered remains. The dream reflected life, and one by one, he looked and tried to find something. It was hard to look, almost impossible. After two, he turned, feeling as if he might faint or fall down, and he ran into his father. He leaned against his dad and an arm wrapped around him, holding him close. “Enough,” his father said, but Stiles shakily pushed back and gestured for the attendant to lift the last sheet. That was when the dream changed, when his mind twisted it into something else. Derek laid there, still and dead, and Stiles felt like he was dead, too.

He woke, gasping for air, awake. Derek was still alive. Derek was alive. It was only a dream. He had to repeat it to himself for several minutes to gather himself enough to remember where he was, what was going on. He was home, in his old bed. It always hit him again, like something crushing him, that he and Derek weren’t together anymore. That they hadn’t been together in a very long time. Years. Stiles stood up and left his room. He paused at his dad’s doorway and listened to his calm, peaceful breathing as he slept. Stiles tried to mirror it, and could not. He took the stairs carefully, afraid he might fall, and went into the kitchen. He stood in the kitchen, and he remembered. He remembered Derek standing at the oven, smiling at him. He remembered sharing his grilled cheese while they both sat on the counter. Then Derek hopped down, pulling Stiles with him, and spun him around. They danced in the kitchen like idiots, and Stiles nearly fell over from laughing so hard, and trying to stifle it. Derek kissed him, and he melted against him, and he knew that he didn’t ever want to be anywhere else.

Now the kitchen was dark, and empty. There were some dirty dishes in the sink, and piles of junk mail on the counter. When had things become such a mess? The more he looked the more he found: signs that his father wasn’t taking proper care of himself. He opened the refrigerator door and gazed at the contents. Some rancid salad, takeout leftovers, and beer. More alcohol than food. When he’d gotten an acceptance letter to MIT, he ran out of town, desperate to get away from everything that Beacon Hills represented to him. He didn’t pay much attention to his father’s life when he wasn’t around, but it seemed it was dusty, and empty, and lonely. It made him want to cry. He’d spent so many years resigned to feeling that way inside, but he didn’t think he’d bring his father down with him.

 

Stiles sat in the café, very uncomfortable as he waited for Scott to arrive. He felt like people were staring at him, and he was pretty sure that they weren’t. He was paranoid. He wondered what people thought about him, and whether they knew why he left. Did they think he ran away, or was it just a natural progression to move away and live in a dorm, to get the full college experience? Did they pay enough attention to the mysterious, odd Hale family to put two and two together, to know about the fire, the death, the remains. Did they realize that when someone died, what was left was also dead, a mere reflection of life? There were no remains that lived.

The movement of the chair across from him called his attention. Scott sat down, and his hand was twined with another—Allison’s hand. Stiles stared at the ring on her finger, and remembered what he already knew. Scott and Allison were engaged. Scott and Allison were in love. Scott and Allison were whole. He did his best to smile, quickly standing and throwing himself into a hug with Scott and then with Allison, hoping they might not see his jealousy and sadness, which seemed to define him most of the time. People had things that he could never have, that he had had once. That he had lost.

“Wow, guys, you look so different,” he sat back down, fidgeting. “How are you guys?”

“Great, Stiles, and you?” Allison smiled genuinely at him, her hand still tight with Scott’s. It was as if they were one person. Stiles had waited for them to order anything, but suddenly wished he already had something to drink, so he could be doing something with his hands. Otherwise he played with anything he could reach, and his nerves became obvious. He shouldn’t have been nervous to be around Scott, but he was. He had left Scott, too, and Scott had kept living. Scott had proposed to Allison, and found a great job, and become Alpha to Erica, and Boyd, and Isaac. Scott’s whole life was filled with purpose, and people, and love.

“Oh, I’m good,” Stiles leaned back. “Totally good. I’m living life, and going to school, and just, really happy. Really happy. Leaving Beacon Hills was the best thing for me. I’ve really found myself at school, and it’s… it’s where I’m meant to be.” He felt himself lying, and he waited for Scott to catch him in the lie, to look at him seriously and see how much he was hurting and how much he wasn’t himself. But Scott looked at Allison, and didn’t seem to notice Stiles the way he used to. Their link was broken. Stiles smiled, bitter. He’d done this to himself. He’d cut himself off from everyone. He thought about Derek—how Derek had run away, tried to ignore his problems. Stiles had done the same thing. Stiles had tried to escape. There was no escape.

He made small talk surprisingly well, which was made easier by how much Scott and Allison talked. He didn’t have to do much but comment occasionally and seem interested. He tried to be genuine, he tried to pay attention to Scott and be supportive, as if things hadn’t changed. After a few minutes, his phone buzzed with a phone call, and he excused himself to use the restroom. It was Derek’s phone number. Derek was calling.

He answered reluctantly, holding the phone up to his ear. There was an exhale of breath, and then Derek hung up the phone. Stiles walked down the street away from the café, cursing under his breath and contemplating calling back. He got a few minutes further, and turned around, remembering he’d been there for a reason. Scott. Now he’d been gone for a while, and Scott would want an explanation. How would he explain it? He didn’t want them to think badly of him. He wanted to make it okay. When he got back to the table they’d been at, he found it empty. They were gone. They hadn’t waited. He checked his watch and realized he’d walked longer than he thought. A few minutes had become an hour, moving in circles and not getting anywhere. No wonder they left. He checked his phone for a text message or missed call, but there was nothing new. It was an all-too-familiar ache.

 

When Stiles got home, he found his father standing in the kitchen. He eyed him uncertainly and went to get a drink of water. His father looked tired, and he sat at the table, playing with a placemat absently. Stiles sighed and took a seat next to him, looking at him seriously. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t,” his dad assured him quickly, adding after a moment, “Well, maybe a little. I understand, Stiles. You’re going through a lot, and you’ve been going through it for years. All I want to do is help but I don’t understand how to.”

“I know I’ve been difficult, dad,” Stiles said. He was afraid he would break in front of his dad, and he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to feel the things he felt. “I don’t know how to fix it, either. I-I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, Stiles, you could talk to me,” his dad offered. “I could not comment if it helps. I could just listen.”

“You know I’ve always felt weird,” Stiles said abruptly, trying to find the best way to start. There wasn’t a good way to start. “I’ve always felt like I didn’t exactly belong with everyone else. I mean, what do the guys at the station think? You’re crazy son, Stiles, always getting into trouble, bouncing around, he can’t sit still or shut up—”

“Nobody thinks that.”

“Please. Just let me…” Stiles looked at his dad, his eyes wet with tears. “I felt that way. Until I met Derek, and he… the way he looked at me, the way he saw me… it was like nobody had ever seen me before. It was like being noticed for the first time,” he looked down, “This isn’t about you. It’s one of those times when family doesn’t count because you know they love you, and you love them, but… Derek, he didn’t know me. And he saw me. And he loved me.”

“There’s a lot to love.”

“And then he ran away and left me here,” Stiles said. “And logically, I know he didn’t leave because of me or to get away from me, but he left, and he didn’t come back. I didn’t want to lose him, I couldn’t lose him, I-I can’t breathe when I think about him, and I honestly don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m doing at school, or in life. I haven’t been talking to Scott, to you, to anyone, and I’m… I’m alone, I’m so alone, and I’m sad all the time. I’m scared. Dad…”

“Hey, hey,” his father moved from his seat, kneeling in front of Stiles chair and pulling him into a hug. “You’re not alone, Stiles.” Stiles all but collapsed against his dad as his father’s voice urged in his ear. “You’re never alone.”

 

Stiles was getting in bed when his phone ring. After he’d spoken with his father, he went straight for the shower and stood under the water until his skin turned pink. Then he dressed for bed, and turned out the lights. He was exhausted, and didn’t have the energy to explain to Scott where he went, or—he looked at his phone—talk to Derek Hale?

“Hello?” Stiles said. “Derek.” There wasn’t an answer for a long time and Stiles suddenly became afraid there was nobody there. Had he made up the phone call at the cafe? No, no. Derek had called him. Derek.

“Hi, Stiles.” His voice sounded exactly the same. Maybe older, a little bit sad, but the same. He sounded exactly like Derek. There was a part of Stiles relieved to know he remembered his voice, so it wasn’t something he’d made up when he thought about his past, wishing that things hadn’t changed.

“You called me before. You hung up on me. Y-You didn’t say anything, and you just tried to do it again,” Stiles said. He’d been exhausted moments before, but now he was just angry.

“Stiles.”

“Why are you doing this? What is the point of this?” Stiles demanded, not caring if he sounded harsh or angry. He was angry. And he needed to say these things to Derek.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I never wanted to hurt you,” Derek said, sounding calm and resigned to Stiles’ tone. That just made Stiles mad, that he was being so accepting and not even trying to defend himself. It was hard to hate him if he regretted it—if he sounded so sad, as sad was Stiles was.

“You just left, Derek. You left me alone. You did hurt me,” Stiles said.

“I know I did. It wasn’t right to do that. It wasn’t the right way to handle it,” Derek agreed with him quietly. He fucking agreed with him! Stiles wanted to yell at Derek, but he wanted Derek to be angry, too. Not this soft, tired person. Not somebody who carried the weight of what they’d done. He didn’t want Derek to care. He wanted Derek to be bad, but Derek wasn’t. And he never had been. Stiles spoke too quickly to catch himself, all of his feelings pouring out all at once.

“I could’ve been there. I would have supported you, helped you… I could have held you, made it okay. It would have been okay if we had been together,” Stiles said.

“I know, Stiles. It would have been a lot better to have you with me.”

“Then why did you leave? Why did you just go? You left me a voicemail and a note, and abandoned me. What did I do to deserve that?” Stiles asked. He had wanted the answers to those questions for years. He had fantasized about what he would say if he ever saw Derek Hale again, and what he would have the audacity to say back to him, to excuse his actions. It wasn’t fair of Stiles—he knew that—because Derek had lost something greater than him, and he was selfish to compare the two, selfish to think they equaled the same amount of suffering. But pain and anger weren’t logical animals. They didn’t feed off of reasonable behavior or being understanding, and Stiles had been prime feeding ground for a long time. He didn’t know what he’d be without the pain, without the anger.

“Nothing, Stiles,” Derek replied. “You were perfect.” It was the worst answer, the worst thing he could say. Stiles had wanted to hate Derek so badly for so long so it could be his fault, because inside he knew it was his own doing. He didn’t deserve to be happy, he didn’t deserve to have Derek and be in love, and be normal like everyone else. He blamed himself, and he covered it by blaming Derek, eviscerating Derek in his mind with words that cut like a knife, and broke him to pieces. Stiles remembered being in Derek’s clear line of sight, and anything else seemed blurry. It was like he’d been blind for years.

“You know what? Fuck you, Derek,” Stiles said, shaking his head, a refusal to listen, as he moved around his room. “Fuck you, for doing this. For calling me right now. I moved on. I’m in school, and I’m living my life, and you calling me after all these years is incredibly selfish. You ran away from me. You left me standing there, watching your house burn, and you were gone the next day. I dream about that moment, and in my dream, I’m alone. When I wake up, there’s this beautiful moment when I think—thank God it was only a dream—and then I realize it’s the truth. It’s what happened. I know you were hurting and I can’t ever understand that hurt because your loss is so much greater than mine, but I loved your family, and I loved you. And I lost everything that night,” he sniffed, wiping his eyes quickly to try and sound clear on the phone. “It made me feel like it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t,” Derek said. It was. It had to be. Didn’t it?

“No, it wasn’t,” Stiles said, almost going weak at the knees from the realization. It was a flood of emotion, drowning him and making everything murky. All he’d thought for all those years, all the blame he’d aimed toward only himself—to think it was misdirected was unfathomable. He’d put himself through the pain. “I can’t do this. Don’t call here again, Derek. Just stay away from me, and my dad, and my life. We’re done. We’ve been done, and you did that to us,” he swallowed, pulling together as much strength as possible to say his final words, “Goodbye, Derek.” He hung up the phone. He’d meant to hurt Derek. Inside, he now knew that it wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t Derek’s, either. Sometimes there was nobody to blame—the blame just made it easier to survive the unbearable loss of life, and greatness of pain.

 

Stiles laid in bed that night and couldn’t sleep. He was thinking about the past few years, and how much time he had wasted instead of moving on with his life. There was no going back, and no way to change what happened. He’d spent so much time alone, he’d forgotten what it was like to feel anything else but lonely. To feel happiness, or joy, or to laugh even. Being home with his dad had made him question that, and being angry with Derek had made him realize that he needed to change. What had happened was a tragedy, but the rest of his life didn’t have to be.

As much as he didn’t want to think about it, he knew Derek had been alone, too. In that they were the same; they had been alone together. It wasn’t right for either of them to be trapped by what had happened. Derek had his reasons for leaving. He needed to leave to cope, to keep holding on. Stiles knew it wasn’t about him, that Derek had never meant to hurt him, and that sometimes bad things just happened without reason or explanation. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t Derek’s. And it wasn’t over. They hadn’t died in the fire.

They had lived.

 

Stiles burst through the front door, carrying as many bags as he could fit on his arms. It was a Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, and his father had the day off. He sat at the kitchen table and watched as Stiles set everything down, starting to bounce through the kitchen and put things away, leaving some things out on the counter.

“I noticed you cleaned up some,” the Sheriff said, glancing around pointedly, “Picked up the living room. That was nice of you.”

“I vacuumed, too, while you were showering,” Stiles said. “I think I’ve got everything we need for tomorrow. I already got the Turkey, but now I’ve got stuff to make sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, stuffing, deviled eggs, and asparagus, which you are totally eating. Oh, and rolls. I got rolls. And a few other things, just stuff, you know, for cooking.”

“That’s great, son,” his father said, eyeing him in slight disbelief. Stiles finished organizing the food and sat down beside him, almost blushing but smiling the slightest bit. His dad said slowly, “You don’t have to cook a big meal for us, though. I don’t mind something smaller.”

“Well, it’s not just for us,” Stiles said hesitantly. “I kind of invited a few people over for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“You invited… people over,” his dad said with a frown. “You’re cooking all this food, and you invited people over—who people? School people?”

“No, just Scott, and some others,” Stiles shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “Should I not have? It’s not too late to cancel, or I could take stuff to someone else’s house—”

“No, Stiles,” his dad said quickly. “You should have people over. Do. Please do. Have as many over as you want, whomever you want. This is good, son. This is real good. I’ll help you, if you want. I’m not much of a cook, but I could handle some sweet potatoes.”

“Perfect,” Stiles said. “Well, I should really get a couple of things started. The Turkey needs to sit for like a thousand hours with some rub on it once it’s stuffed, and a couple of other things might be easier to make today and heat up tomorrow. Only so much oven space.” Stiles stood and starting working, relieved that his dad was so fine with his plans. He’d called Scott and apologized for disappearing and Scott understood. He said he knew something was off, but he wasn’t sure if he should mention it. Stiles felt good knowing that Scott could still tell that much about him from so short a time. Having Scott over meant Melissa, and Allison. Allison usually brought Lydia with her, and Lydia would bring Jackson. Plus, if Scott wasn’t making anything for his betas, they’d all be over, too. Erica, and Boyd, and Isaac, and Boyd’s mom, and Erica’s mom and…

Everybody. Everyone would come to Thanksgiving dinner, and he would be surrounded by people laughing, and eating, and having a good time. He would be somewhat uncomfortable, waiting for someone to mention his strange behavior, how he seemingly disappeared from their lives, and how much time had passed. Maybe nobody would. He almost smiled. Erica would. She would make some kind of sarcastic comment, and Boyd would hush her, and they’d tease each other. Scott and Allison would be polite, and talk to everyone, while Stiles’ dad and Melissa mostly stayed out of the way and hung out together. Lydia and Jackson might even get in a fight, but it wouldn’t last. She would win; she always did. It would be just like old times. Just like when they were friends. Before the fire. Before Derek left. 

Derek.

 

Stiles’ hand was shaking when he dialed his phone number. He held the phone to his ear, chewing on his thumb and impatiently listening to it ring. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, slightly out of breath. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Stiles said. “Everything is fine. I know we had a fight a few days ago, and I said never to call me again. You didn’t.”

“I was trying to do what you asked,” Derek said.

“Yeah, well, I know I said a whole bunch of stuff, but I’d really like for you to come to Thanksgiving this year. Here. At my house. Consider it an apology for being such a jerk to you, and making everything about myself.”

“You want me to come?” Derek asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” Stiles said with absolute certainty. “You can bring pie.”

 

Stiles got up early and started his preparations for the meal. He figured they’d eat midday, so he got the turkey ready first and put in the oven. It was the strangest sensation to be excited for something, to look forward to a future. To even consider that he had a future. He stopped paying attention to the time and focused on his task, barely noticing when his father came downstairs.

“Morning,” the Sheriff grunted, reaching for some coffee. Stiles handed him a mug and smiled pleasantly. “You’re up early.”

“Lots to do,” Stiles said. “Could you set the table, when you get a chance? We’re going to be fourteen. I pulled the card table in front the garage.”

“Fourteen, huh?” his father raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a lot of people.”

“Hence the lots of food,” Stiles said. “I already stacked the plates on the table, so it shouldn’t be too much work.”

“It’s not,” his dad assured him. “It’s great. All of it is great. You seem excited about this. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve seen you this happy since…”

“I love you, dad,” Stiles said. “Thanks for not giving up on me.”

“Never, kid,” his father responded, and went to go set the table while he finished his coffee. Stiles stayed in the kitchen, but as people arrived they walked through to greet him. Scott, Allison and the pack sat around the kitchen and talked while Stiles finished up. At last, he had everything done but the deviled eggs, and everyone had arrived but Derek. He was midway through the process when he heard a knock at the door.

Stiles went to answer it. He self-consciously smoothed his hair and messed with his clothes, though he was sure he was making things worse and getting egg all over his body. He opened the door and there stood Derek Hale, tall and handsome and perfect, and exactly the same. Stiles almost spoke, but then he saw the scarf around Derek’s neck—his scarf. Red, and wool, that he had left at his house that first Thanksgiving. Derek noticed and looked away for a moment in embarrassment. He held two boxed pies out toward Stiles, shyly smiling.

Stiles was still wide-eyed, but took the pies and held them carefully. He slowly grinned, goofy and wide, and asked, “Do you know how to heat rolls?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, and he stepped inside the home, filled with family. “I think I can manage that.”


End file.
